He grimaced. Well, at worst he was a murderer.
Aye, the man he’d killed was an abuser of women, a wretch who had nearly beaten a lass to death for plying her trade, but claiming his death as redress would be a lie. He’d died because he had a fat purse.
There were many days when he hated who he was.
But thievery was all he knew, and he was good at it.
Bran closed his eyes. What hewasn’tgood at was telling the truth—and yet that was exactly what Caitrina deserved. It was long past time. On the morrow, he would tell her how he’d come to have in his possession a silver crown set with a large sapphire. And why three fierce MacCurran warriors would willingly chase him to the very ends of the earth to see him punished for it.
Chapter 9
Marsailli was asleep when the Bear returned to the camp, but she didn’t remain that way for long. He hauled her from her bed by her hair, snarling incoherently about her sister’s betrayal and the audacity of his mount to die during a race for safety. Heart pounding, tears flowing, she watched mutely as he proceeded to destroy her tent in a fit of unholy rage, snapping the wooden poles like matchsticks and tearing great holes in the canvas walls.
She shivered in the center of the misty plateau, wondering whether her time had finally come.
Slipping her hand into the purse she had worn to bed, she felt for the sharp points of her sewing needles. If he came at her, she would use them, puny or not. If nothing else, they might incite him to kill her with a single blow instead of punishing her with a lengthy torture.
But to her surprise, there was no need for desperate measures.
As the tent came apart in his meaty fists, Giric’s rage subsided. Only moments after his tirade began, he stood in the center of the destruction with his eyes closed, breathing heavily.
“Bring me some soup,” he ordered quietly.
For a moment, no one moved. Not Marsailli, not the midwife, not the few remaining soldiers in the camp. But then Giric opened his eyes and pinned Marsailli with his cold stare. “Bring me some soup,” he repeated.
Biting back her fears, she darted for the cauldron hanging over the fire pit. With shaky hands, she ladled soup into a wooden bowl, and then navigated the piles of broken wood, jumbled clothing, and ripped tenting to bring it to him.
He poured the soup down his throat, then tossed aside the bowl.
“Are you still bleeding?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then get thee from my sight.”
Marsailli needed no further encouragement; she quickly backed away. Her bed was gone and she had nowhere to sleep, but she was alive. And for that she was profoundly grateful. She exchanged a look with the midwife, who looked as wide eyed and pale faced as Marsailli felt. The older woman lifted one corner of the blanket around her shoulders, offering a warm retreat, and Marsailli scurried into her embrace.
Giric exchanged hushed words with one of his men, who then saddled a horse and swiftly left the camp. Once he was gone, the Bear settled in front of the fire, staring into the flickering flames with a grim countenance.
Plotting her sister’s comeuppance, no doubt.
Marsailli lifted her gaze to the moon hanging like a fat pearl in the night sky. If Caitrina had betrayed him in some way, did that not suggest her sister was nearby... and working to free her? She certainly hoped it was so. It would be so much easier to keep the faith if she could believe her sister was staring up at this very same moon, planning a daring rescue.
She and the midwife sidled closer to the fire, remaining out of the Bear’s view.
But time was running out. Once her menses ceased to flow, the huge Englishman would have no cause to restrain himself. He would exact his revenge in some truly despicable fashion. The cold look in his eyes said as much.
She scanned the walls of shale that surrounded the camp, trying to spy a path between the loose, uneven piles of rock painted silver by the moonlight. If she knew what direction to head in, she would attempt to reach Caitrina. But she did not—she remembered the climb up from the burn, but not the direction they had traveled to reach it. One dark corner of the woods looked the same as any other. And the previous night, the chilling howl of a wolf had echoed through the glen.
Nay. She was safer here.
For at least one more night.
She leaned her head on the midwife’s bony shoulder and closed her eyes. If she was still alive come morning, there would be some difficult choices to make.
***
Morning dawned with cruel brightness.
